Broken Souls
by stealingETERNITY
Summary: The night visits had continued, each restoring a tiny shard of life to Hermione’s broken spirit. Slowly, she found herself being healed. As she had done before, she laughed to herself. A Death Eater, she knew, was undoing the others’ work.


**I.**

Loneliness was a reasonable thing to fear. Consequently, being a very reasonable person, Hermione Granger's largest fear was to be completely and utterly alone.

As luck would have it, she was alone, and to make matters worse, didn't know where she was.

Her world was small, contained in a single dark room that was cramped with antiques that had been coated with cobwebs and dust over countless years. Her bed was an old sofa; her time was spent reading ancient books that threatened to break when she opened them. She hadn't discovered anything interesting, just several books with the bloodlines and family trees of pureblooded families.

The battle at Hogwarts had been the Order of the Phoenix's last stand against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The Order had been overpowered, and in the midst of battle, no one had noticed Hermione's disappearance until it was too late.

Fighting four Death Eaters at once was no easy feat, and it was by striving to do the impossible that she had been captured by the enemy. Placed under a full body lock, Hermione had been whisked away from Hogwarts by a masked Death Eater, helpless to do anything but take in her surroundings. Even that had become impossible, as she'd only caught a glimpse of a flagstone floor before her eyes had been covered by a blindfold and all the world had gone black.

From there she'd been taken to a small room, had her robes searched, and then, the greatest blow of all, had her wand taken away. The door had opened, her captor had left, and then the blindfold had disappeared, and she'd first seen the tiny room that was to be her prison.

**II.**

The Death Eaters were not quiet when expressing excitement, and she heard their voices through the floor beneath her feet.

"Granger? _The_ Granger?" a voice had exclaimed gleefully. "You captured Potter's Mudblood friend?"

Then another voice had shouted, one that she recognized and hated. "Where is she? Let me play, you know I like playing with filthy Mudbloods." She could imagine the anticipation on Bellatrix's face, the sick light of excitement in her hooded eyes. Hermione shivered involuntarily, but kept her ear pressed to the floor.

"No, Bella! You know the Dark Lord wants to keep her." She'd recognized the drawl as Lucius Malfoy's and shuddered again, his gray eyes vividly burned into her memory.

"Come now, Lucius. Just a bit of fun," Bellatrix had whined.

"The Dark Lord wants his prisoner sane, not tortured into insanity by the Cruciatus Curse! Unless you'd like to explain to him…"

Their voices had trailed off then, and Hermione had stared into the darkness for a while. Voldemort wanted her, but why? What had happened to Harry and Ron? What of the others?

She was once more answered by the voices in the room below. A woman shouted as she ran into the room, her voice jubilant.

"The Order of the Phoenix has retreated. The Dark Lord is leaving Hogwarts as we speak!"

With dread, Hermione had closed her eyes. Harry had retreated. That had to mean that too many were dead. How many had died? To never again see the faces of those she'd known, been friends with, _loved_ as if they were family… She began to rock back and forth, her arms wrapped tightly about her own chest. It was a feeble attempt to hold herself together. Useless.

The sobs began again—great, choking sobs that left her gasping for breath. Her entire body shuddered with the effort of keeping back the hysterical screams that wanted to rip from her throat. Her soul felt as if it had been torn apart, as if she'd attempted to create Horcruxes. But murder hadn't ripped her soul apart—love had. Love for her friends, whose fates she didn't know. The single most important question—Alive of dead?—was hovering over each name that she knew, each piece of her soul that represented one of those she cared for so much.

**III.**

Voldemort was coming for her as well. The knowledge alone was terrifying enough. Hermione shook, her lips trembled, yet she tried to maintain some control. And then, the voices delivered the news. It was, perhaps, both the best and worst news she could have received.

"He's here."

"He's coming."

"The Dark Lord has arrived."

The voices of Lucius, his wife, and Bellatrix were fearful but excited, disgusted yet proud. To know that even these murderers, these _loyal followers_ of Voldemort, feared their own master instilled the tiniest shard of happiness in Hermione. The Dark Lord was a wizard to be feared, and it was only fair that everyone, even his servants, feared him.

The news that Voldemort was coming for her was perhaps the best news for if he was coming to kill her, the end was near and she would no longer have to face the terrors of a world at war. If she died, she'd be at peace, a spirit in a world of grey, an equal to the dead. Blood status would no longer matter if she died. There would be no Purebloods, no Half-Bloods, no Mudbloods. At last, even if it was only in death, she would be equal. Perhaps it was cowardly to wish for death, but it would be her choice, wouldn't it? She'd been brave enough to last a lifetime. Cowardice seemed to be something she deserved. No one could be brave all their life. There had to be moments of weakness, moments when even the strongest of hearts failed—even if just for an instant. She'd earned the right to her moment of faint-heartedness, and if being a coward was the last act in her life, so be it. She'd made Gryffindor proud often enough; it was time to choose something for herself.

But if Voldemort did not grant her death, his coming for her was terrible news. He would torture her, and then she could not be cowardly. She would have to fight back, be brave for her friends, whether they were dead or alive. In death she could be a coward, in life, she could not.

A swish of robes was heard below; the sound of quick footsteps met her ears.

"_Master."_ Bellatrix's voice was, if possible, a caress. Her devotion was evident, the earlier trace of fear well hidden.

"My Lord." Lucius Malfoy was not so good a liar as his wife's sister. His voice still held a slight tremor, a shiver of fear. He had not forgotten his punishment for the disaster in the Department of Mysteries. He could not pretend that his master had never treated him cruelly.

"Where is she?" Lord Voldemort's voice was high, a hiss that was threatening even as his voice was soft, gentle even.

"We have her, my Lord! We have the Mudblood!" The voice was Bellatrix's.

"Silence, Bella. I know you have her. Where is she?"

"The brat is in one of the attics. We've taken her wand." This voice was softer, meeker. Like her husband, Narcissa knew to fear the Dark Lord.

"Excellent. Her wand?" There was a brief moment of silence, during which, Hermione presumed, her wand was given to Voldemort. "Take me to her."

There was silence, and then a minute later, Hermione could hear the slither of scales outside the door to her prison. So he'd brought Nagini. If only she had something to kill the snake with, then she'd be helping Harry in his quest to destroy the Horcruxes. She wouldn't feel so useless.

"_Alohomora."_

The door swung open and Voldemort entered. The great snake slid in after him, making her way between antiques, leaving a thick path through the layers of dust and grime on the floor, thee result of years of neglect. Her hissing filled the small room.

A sudden louder hiss made Hermione stiffen in surprise, and then the snake was silent. Voldemort was studying his Horcrux almost lovingly, and then he abruptly turned his red eyes to Hermione.

She tried not to cower beneath his gaze, and instead forced herself to look into his eyes. Her mind was infiltrated in an instant by the powerful wizard, and she valiantly fought against his attempt to search her thoughts. He retreated slowly, leaving a burning sensation behind. Hermione gasped for breath, stunned that she'd fought him off.

"Courage. Spirit. How very Gryffindor of you," he sneered. "Hermione Granger, I do not wish to play games. You will answer my questions, give me the information I seek."

Hermione stared straight at him, resolutely keeping her mouth closed.

"Does Harry Potter know of my Horcruxes?"

Again, she was determinedly silent.

"I see." It was a low hiss, a sound that was answered by Nagini, who crept closer to Hermione. "You wish to make things difficult." The red eyes burned with intensity as they stared at her. The room was silent, save for their breathing. "Very well, then. _Crucio!_"

The pain was instant. She'd never felt such pain in her life. This was worse than Bellatrix, much worse.

She screamed, begged. On her hands and knees, she cried for mercy from the only Wizard who had never showed any. And as was expected, she received none. The pain carried on, terrible in its strength. Below, she could hear the whimpering of a boy. A Death Eater, frightened at the torture of a Mudblood.

And in the midst of the pain, she laughed. Laughed at the insanity of it all. How could Voldemort's own followers fear him? Was it fair, that these _Purebloods_ were no different than the rest of the world, and yet they were the survivors, the murderers? Was it fair, that a wizard who had vowed to hate _her kind_ was horrified when she was finally punished for being who she was?

Everyone was crazy in the world, she decided. It was so clear. The idea cut through the pained haze in her mind, shining brilliantly before her. No one was sane. They were all lunatics. There were those like Bellatrix, who were visibly crazy. And then there were those like herself. The ones who laughed when they were being tortured, simply because a sudden realization had come upon them. They were all equals. Then why was she the one to be picked on out of the thousands of others?

At last, she lost strength. Lost her courage. Her spirit. The glimmering idea faded from her mind as her limbs grew weak. She collapsed, and the dark world within her torture twisted mind was a relief, a place where she could escape from the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. As she weakened, she felt the body of the great snake cross over her collapsed body as she followed her master. Her last coherent thought was that it was fitting for Nagini to slither over her. She had been reduced to a position lower even than that of an animal. She served as the floor beneath a snake's body.

**IV.**

She didn't hear the Death Eaters for weeks. She survived only by the care of one who remained. At first, she only saw the house elf that brought food. She refused to eat it, though. After three days of this, the elves stopped coming, and instead, a hand reached through the open door and deposited a meal and drink on the dusty floor.

She was listless. In her normal state of mind and curiosity, she would have crept towards the door in order to discover who it was who was leaving her food, which Death Eater was merciful enough to care for her and keep her alive.

She was waiting for Death for an open heart and mind. She wanted that cloaked bringer of peace to come and take her life, what little life she had left. She would have accepted him with open arms and, as the third Peverell brother had done, gladly left the living world with him as his friend.

But Death did not come for her.

**V.**

It was dark when the first visit occurred. She was on a beaten sofa, lying awake in the middle of the night, unable—as she was many nights—to sleep. The attic door had swung open, and, miraculously, impossibly, a light had appeared. She'd sat upright in shock, her mind suddenly cleared. With a sudden strength and energy she had lunged for the door, only to have it shut in her face just as the light extinguished. And so, once again, she became listless, a corpse that was yet to die.

Tired, she had returned to the sofa to recline and close her eyes. And then it had happened. The stroke of a finger down her cheek. Ghostlike. She'd lain there, believing it was her imagination. The touch had trailed down her jaw, to rest on her lips. And then, then her eyes had sprung open and she had leapt to her feet, wary.

"Who is it?"

There had been no answer.

Fully believing she was losing her mind, she laid herself back to sleep. But she couldn't. She lay with her eyes wide open, unwilling as they were to shut. And then it had happened again, this time running down her arm. Shivers had taken control of her; so much that she couldn't contain the chattering of her teeth. And then again, the ghost finger had touched itself to her lips, a clear warning. _Be silent._

The shaking had stopped.

Again, she had asked her question.

"Who is it?"

She received no answer.

**VI.**

The night visits had continued, each restoring a tiny shard of life to Hermione's broken spirit. Slowly, she found herself being healed. As she had done before, she laughed to herself. A Death Eater, she knew, was undoing the others' work. He was healing what they had broken, bringing back to life that which had been on the very brink of death. It was twisted, she thought. Wrong. Backwards. All sense had fled from her world.

**VII.**

She had known the one night was going to be different as soon as he entered the attic room. For he had sat next to her on the sagging sofa, something he had never done before. And because he had done so, she knew exactly where he was. With a steady hand and mind, she had reached out and her hand had met something solid.

Small gasps had escaped her lips as she trailed her finger down his cheek. Her savior was real, not a figment of her imagination. She had leaned forward, breathing in deeply, knowing her face was next to his. And just as she had been about to press her lips to where she knew his to be, he had stopped her. With a single word, he had halted her advance.

_Hermione._

Her name.

She hadn't heard her name said by another person in nearly a year. It was a gift, a curse. It reminded her of her identity. And it reminded her of who she was, who she had been. And the difference between the two was staggering, upsetting. Nearly enough to drive her insanity once more. She had changed so much in the past year. Locked up, her courage depleted, she had lost all sense of who she was. And here, this stranger, had reminded her of who she was.

Yet as she heard his voice, he was no longer a mystery. She knew him, as he knew her. It was a voice she had hated. A voice that had taunted her, teased her, nearly destroyed her happiness at Hogwarts. A voice that could belong to no other boy—no, _man_- than Draco.

She had paused, frozen in place as she recognized it. Again, she felt that the entire world had been driven to madness along with her. He, who had hated her, put her down, was now building her back up and loving her with feeling in a way that only those who truly felt their emotions could. It was all backwards.

She had nearly kissed him, and he had stopped her. She thought she knew why. But she was wrong, for he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't that he didn't want her to kiss him. It was simply that _he_ wanted to be the one to do it.

She had known that the night was going to be different, and it was.

His hands had skimmed up her sides as she leaned back into the velvet cushions of the sofa. Eager fingers had pushed up her only clothing, a shift of gray cloth, torn after a year of wear. With his touch on her skin she felt beautiful, finally restored to her former self, just with different ideas and views of the world. She let him touch her, kiss her, need her, even with the knowledge that they had once been rivals. It meant nothing to her now. The past was a forgotten thing, buried deep within her twisted mind.

**VII.**

She was woken by a thin shaft of sunlight that had managed to pierce through the old beams of the attic. Her thoughts, mixed as they were, were mainly of the night before. She could not see her rescuer, but she could hear his breathing. She was suddenly curious, more so than ever before. Why did she never see him? Was it not unfair that he was able to gaze upon her, yet she could never set her own eyes upon him?

Her desire was insatiable, and she reached towards the sound of his steady breathing. If she was careful, she could pull off the cloak she knew he wore without waking him from his slumber. The task was quickly done, and she was able to gaze upon his body, marked as it was by the Dark Lord's sign. He was unblemished, save for that single mark upon his skin. With eyes closed, he appeared as if an angel. The slow rise and fall of his chest was beautiful to gaze upon, and she could see the beating of his heart, that which made him human, more so than the others who belonged to Voldemort.

He was the first human she had seen since her last glimpse of the Dark Lord a year ago. He was the first human with a heart she had seen since her capture. And she was tempted to touch him, to place her hand over his chest, to feel the beating of his heart beneath her palm and feel, for herself, that there were still those who were good in the world.

With a trembling hand she touched his ivory skin. He was, without doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever seen, for he had made her whole again. She could love now, and feel emotions which she had thought she would never feel again.

As she touched his chest, she felt him still beneath her, and then, with a sudden lurch, he was standing and she had been thrown to the ground. She stared up at him and he down at her, and she was not frightened by the anger and sadness she saw in his eyes. She was suddenly in his arms, and he was twisting, spinning on his heel.

**VIII.**

He had set her down on the grass, and gazed upon her, drank her in, knowing that it was most likely the last time he would see her.

"Draco?"

She had asked his name tentatively, and he had drawn in a sharp, pained breath. He had known what she was going to ask. Why had he brought her here, to this wood, away from her prison?

"You are in a wood near your friends. Find them, and stay with them."

"Why—"

"You have to go."

"Don't you want me?"

He stared down at her, forced himself to once again be cold, cruel like his father before him. "You have your freedom. Be happy."

She looked at him, her lips trembling. "I am. But what about you?"

He made himself speak. "You can't stay with me. You've uncovered me, and if they find out they'll kill us both. Go."

"I love you."

He didn't react, and she felt a small piece of her break.

Leaning up, she pressed her lips to his.

"Stay."

"I can't."

He let her kiss him harder, fiercer.

"Love me."

"I won't."

Another piece, slightly larger than the first, broke within her.

"Come with me. You'll be safe," she pleaded.

"No."

She felt the tears, as did he, and they both forced them back, unwilling to be weak.

"Go. You don't have much time."

He steered her around and she stumbled away when he gave a slight push in the direction he wanted her to go.

And suddenly, all that had been drained from her, her loyalty, defiance, her courage, and her stubbornness, flared within her, set aflame by what had happened.

"Take me back," she said.

He stared incredously. "Never."

He began to walk away.

"Draco." He paused. "Come back to me. Come back and I'll go. Come back and tell me."

He knew, though she did not state it, what she wanted him to tell her. And so he ran, flew back to her as if winged, and took her in his arms and kissed her, over and over. "I love you." He kissed her hair. "I love you." His lips grazed her cheek. "I love you." He kissed her lips tenderly and set her down. "Now go."

Turning, she began to run. At the edge of the clearing, she looked back. "Will I see you again?"

He met her eyes. "Yes."

They both knew he was lying.

And then he Disapparated and she ran, fled from the forest, though he was burned into her mind, a light in the dark. He was like a ghost, he always had been, ever since their first encounter in the attic.

She ran until she saw the house, with its many crooked floors and mismatched windows and garden gnomes. She stumbled up the front stairs and tripped over a muddy boot. It was easy to fling open the door and slam it shut behind her. There was a chair next to the door, almost as if someone had known she was arriving.

She collapsed upon it, numb.

He was gone.

She knew, had seen in his eyes, that they would never see each other again.

And she also knew that all that he had done to heal her had been undone, though not completely. She had shattered in an instant, back there in the woods.

He had left her, and with his absence, she was once again broken.


End file.
